But there is no joke about the water; it is pouring in torrents from
above; the streets are shallow streams; and from scores of ditches and
gullies comes the merry music of swiftly rushing waters, while, to crown
all, scores of monster streams are rushing with a hissing sound from the
mouths of huge pipes or nozzles, and playing against the surrounding
hills; for Dutch Flat and neighboring camps are the great centre of
hydraulic mining operations in California at the present day. Streams
of water, higher lip the mountains, are taken from their channels and
conducted hither through miles of wooden flumes and iron piping; and
from the mouths of huge nozzles are thrown with tremendous force against
the hills, literally mowing them down. The rain stops as abruptly as it
began. The sun shines out clear and warm, and I push ahead once more.

Gradually I have been getting up into the snow, and ever and anon a
muffled roar comes booming and echoing over the mountains like the sound
of distant artillery. It is the sullen noise of monster snow-slides among
the deep, dark ca¤ons of the mountains, though a wicked person at Gold
Run winked at another man and tried to make me believe it was the grizzlies
"going about the mountains like roaring lions, seeking whom they might
devour." The giant voices of nature, the imposing scenery, the gloomy
pine forests which have now taken the place of the gay chaparral, combine
to impress one who, all alone, looks and listens with a realizing sense
of his own littleness. What a change has come over the whole face of
nature in a few days' travel. But four days ago I was in the semi-tropical
Sacramento Valley; now gaunt winter reigns supreme, and the only vegetation
is the hardy pine.

This afternoon I pass a small camp of Digger Indians, to whom my bicycle
is as much a mystery as was the first locomotive; yet they scarcely turn
their uncovered heads to look; and my cheery greeting of "How," scarce